Trickle
by DollyPop12
Summary: "I want it to hurt," she says. And he never knew how to deny her. (ft. Masochist!Marie)


_"Deeper."_

The scalpel dug in just barely, not so much that he was going to split muscle, but just a butterfly of a touch. At Marie's request for more, he flicked his wrist, watching the blade parting her flesh at a curve and she sucked in breath, both harshly and with the slightest hitch in her throat.

He doesn't want to look at the incision. He doesn't want to see blood, Marie's blood, oozing down down down across her soft skin, previously unmarred by anything but his mouth-marks. He doesn't want to bear witness to how he was splitting her skin.

Just like she asked him to.

But he has to. Watch, that is. Because he's a doctor, by profession, by nature, and he had to make sure there were no mistakes. If this was what she wanted, how she wanted it, then he just had to ensure it was clean.

Blood never bothered him, before. It couldn't.

It was only hers that made the worry bubble up. Only the trickle of crimson coming over her rosy skin that could make him feel ashamed of himself so deeply that it thrummed in his bones, ached inside of him while the very air in the room got hot. He cuts and she calls his name, moaning softly.

The scalpel was freezing in his hands, cold and sturdy, merely an extension of him. But nothing about him felt cold. It was too warm in the room, too warm in his clothes, and, especially in response to Marie's lack of covering, and the way her body reacted to each movement he made, he was brought alive and on edge.

He swallowed thickly when he took a moment to wipe the area between her breasts clean of gore, so he could see the lines better, and a small droplet of blood came down, sliding across her navel. The sudden, overwhelming urge to lick it, to lick her, like some sort of animal desperate for the taste of copper on his tongue made him close his eyes, and when he opened them again, it was to focus intently on the half finished carving between her breasts.

He had to stop thinking along those lines, even if his hips wanted so much to twist about, a coil in his belly hot and tight.

She wouldn't mind. She'd likely welcome the action, in fact, but it would be unsanitary. It would be asking for infection, probably, and the last thing he wanted was to hinder her healing process.

It would make him feel feral, and if he let go of his final shreds of guilt, of his hesitancy, he didn't know what he'd end up doing. Marie was so willing, so wanting.

He couldn't trust himself when she was like that, when, with each bite of metal into her skin, she'd whine out, lowly, a tatter of his name in her mouth. No, he didn't know how to trust himself in light of that, and he shifted around in front of her, ignoring the more physical parts of him that didn't know shame.

When he looked up from the half-completed heart he'd carved into her (carved, as though he were a butcher. The whispers pressed into his ears and nearly smothered him, and it made something in him hollow out when he set his scalpel back to skin), she had decided to peer down at him, and her smile was blurry and soft and pleased.

"Thank you," she says, and his belly bottoms out. Her face is flushed, cheeks warmed and high in color, and he swallows again, thickly.

Wasn't it what he always wanted? A willing experiment, one who didn't mind the way his hands only knew how to destroy? Hadn't he been interested in the arbitrary line between pleasure and pain? To get someone not only willing but yearning, aching ( _-wet and mewling and moaning his name with his hair in her fists and-_ ) for what he was doing, wasn't that what he had always wanted?

It confused him. She was a Death Scythe, one of the strongest weapons: she knew hurt, she knew how to protect herself from anything truly dangerous, and yet, he treated her as though she were something delicate, something he was so unwilling to harm though she seemed to seek it from him. (Or, perhaps delicate was not the word he was looking for. Nothing about Marie was delicate. He wracked his mind for something better, something that more easily defined her, but the blood in his body had pooled elsewhere.) His head spun. His body felt ready to pounce, adrenaline coursing through him as if he were ready to fight or flee or fuck.

He didn't tell her 'You're welcome' with a smirk and a flick of his tongue across the gory edge of a scalpel, did not taste her blood over her warm skin. If he did, he thinks he wouldn't be able to stay where he was, on the threshold, on a teeter. He had to be an observer, a doctor, just an extension of his scalpel as he marked her.

(Like she wanted. Like she _wanted_. And he never knew how to say "no" to Marie. He should have said "no", should have denied her because it was killing him, smarting inside of him with every glide of metal into tissue. But all she had to do was give him a look and the "yes" was stuttering out of him and her smile had been so perfect against his mouth and jaw and throat and downdowndown-)

Instead, he only continued to cut, even when her hands came to the top of his head and mused his hair, her fingers smoothing over his scalp, especially where his screw met his skull, and he thinks if she turns it, that would be the end for him: there was something in him that wailed and opened its mouth, warning him not to let her.

He didn't know what he would do.

Each nerve felt alive and electric in him, hair on edge.

And yet, Marie only continued toying with danger as she arched up, and from the way he was settled over her, his knee between her legs as general leverage, he could feel her squirming until she scooted closer to him and ground down on his leg, gasping as his steady hold on the blade faltered and he bit the edge in too far into her flesh, prompting a moan.

Marie's lip found its way between her teeth and she rocked onto his knee, shuddering.

He didn't hesitate to hold her still, though she whined at the action. His mouth opened with some excuse, that he didn't mean to be cruel, he wasn't trying to deny her (that he couldn't, that he didn't know what he _could_ give her that she'd want, only that he would), that he didn't want to risk cutting her too deeply, but it died in his throat when he looked back at her.

She had always had such an innocent face: expression kind and caramel eye warm and forgiving. Seeing her looking so wrecked, lips gently parted, eye dazed with her pupil blown wide-open in her pleasure, and it nearly made him unfurl at the edges.

He inhaled harshly, steadied himself. She was sitting up, so that he could ensure that the lines of the heart she had requested between her breasts( _"I want it to hurt. I want it to be you."_ ) wouldn't be sloppy, and he had to hold her shoulder in order to keep her from squirming.

His nails accidentally scratched into her skin and she closed her eyes, moaning his name lowly and he gulped, feeling himself twitch and yearn, hands so desperate to touch her and take her and

If she wanted it that way—

-Death, he never knew how to deny her.

He finds that his hold on her shoulder slides down, following the curve of her exposed breast and the slope of her waist, smearing the trickle of blood that had come down, cooling and soon to clot, before he brings his touch between her legs, where she most wants it, and finished the final curve of the heart at the same time as he parted her, rubbing tenderly.

He doesn't put the scalpel in the sterilizing solution he'd prepared before. He can't find it in him to ever want to be near it, again. Instead, it clatters to the floor, mixing with Marie's moans, and he doesn't sop up the fresh blood that comes over her belly.

"S-Stein! Right there-" she whispers out, raggedly, cutting herself off and bucking to his hand, and it was almost too much for him.

He doesn't know if he's panting, or if it's just her, and he leans forward, setting his forehead against her sternum, mouth to wound with Marie and if he breathes in he can almost taste her but he refuses to let himself do so. As his fingers keep working, moving into her and curling in the way he knows she likes, her hand strokes his hair as she gasps, as though his reward. He nearly goes cross-eyed looking at how another trickle of her blood started pouring down over her torso, slowly, as though to tease.

He needs to clean her wound. He tries to will his mind to focus on the medical, on the antiseptic he had laid out, prior, when she first requested his assistance, of the healing time, of how he needed to open the package of sterile gauze, of the aftercare he'd inform her of. But she wraps an arm around his neck and calls his name and she is flushed from shoulders to knees, so turned on, so _slick_ , and she keeps bucking until her entire body goes taut and she's trembling.

He doesn't know when his arm came around her, but she's shaking in his hold and he can't think anymore. He doesn't want to. Instead, he arches over her, helping her to her back as she works through her orgasm, until he's hovering over her, supporting himself on one elbow and kissing her neck. As he goes down over her shapely form, her blood smears over his cheek, making her shiver as the warm wetness mingles between them and his fingers haven't stopped moving, making her wail and arch, stuttering "F-Franken!"

It would sting to clean her wounds.

But he isn't sure who it would hurt more.


End file.
